


in the belly of the beast

by quandary



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Château Guillard is a Thing now isn't it, Gen, but here you have it, i dont know where i was going with this, or what i hoped to accomplish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 17:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12347655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quandary/pseuds/quandary
Summary: Widowmaker has taken to sulking in the bowels of Château Guillard. Sombra grows nosy.





	in the belly of the beast

**Author's Note:**

> ya so  
> just some borin gen fic that deals more with atmosphere and location than ship stuff. i feel like there's a lot going on with widowmaker whether talon knows it or not, and it inevitably bleeds through. sombra, naturally needing to know everything at all times, begins to grow curious. or nosy. guess it depends on the circumstance.

To put it kindly, Château Guillard is a dump.

The air is stale and reeks of mold and mildew and long forgotten memories. When sombra decided to take a peek at the spider's ancestral nest, this wasn't what she expected to see. Though what _did_ she expect for an ages old abandoned mansion that's rotting on an island?

Certainly, she didn't think it'd be all gilded halls and pristine wallpaper but Widowmaker had made no attempts to rejuvenate the dilapidated estate since acquiring it.

That was currently two months ago. And Sombra grew curious as to why Widowmaker continued to sneak off to Château Guillard despite it being run-down.

Now, the setting Annecy sun had cast the mansion in an eerie light. Darkness made the shadows tall, close to menacing. Maybe once upon a time, Château Guillard might have been beautiful. Beneath the decades (century?) of disuse and abandonment, it's old splendor still slept.

The paintings lining the walls watched Sombra, her purple augments garish in the dimness. Glowing like a backlit keyboard borders on comical, but Sombra has more interesting things to attend to: namely, where Widowmaker is hiding.

The halls of Château Guillard were hollow, barren and you wouldn't think someone haunted it's belly. A trailing finger left a white streak in it's wake; years and years of dust still caked everything. Sombra left the spacious foyer glad she was wearing gloves.

A staircase yawned wide open not too far from the foyer she left, and up it wafted the chorus of _Swan Lake_ \--one of those "classical" music pieces Widowmaker liked so much. (Anything predating 2050 was classical to sombra, though.)

"Araña?" Sombra says into the darkness leeching up the staircase. The darkness says nothing back.

 _Swan Lake_ swells to a crescendo. Sombra takes a step, and another. The further she travels, the more convinced she becomes that cigarette smoke perfumes the air.

"It's not nice to ignore your guests." She persists. Faintly, soft yellow light breaks the darkness. In the basement, the smell of mold is stronger, mixing with the cigarette smoke.

"I did not invite you." Widowmaker intones, voice flat, unwelcoming. She is a black silhouette against the small lantern she has in the corner. A record player lays by her legs; _Swan Lake_ continues on. Widowmaker takes a drag off her cigarette, otherwise ignoring Sombra. The sleeve of her robe rustles with the movement. Even that is graceful, like so much of what Widowmaker does. Including the kills, perhaps especially those. There is deadliness in her beauty, but that's all by design, isn't it? Make a lethal weapon out of what was once a beautiful woman, much like this mansion has become a catacomb.

"You're not very good at covering your tracks." Sombra mentions, traveling further into Widowmaker's dank hiding spot. Something about the atmosphere has her uneasy. She can't quite place it. Again, Widowmaker ignores her. She smokes, unmoving on her spot on the floor.

The lantern showcases the dust Widowmaker has disturbed, glints off empty wine bottles. Everything about this scene screams "depression cavern" but that's not like Talon's pet spider. Wallowing in the dark and listening to ancient music doesn't quite seem like something a reconditioned sniper would do. Anything of the sort would be stamped right out, mentally rewired. Unless there was more to the her than she let on---how many years has she been enslaved by Talon? A leash can be pulled from either end, after all.

"Is this what you do on your time off?" Sombra asks, perhaps uselessly. She'd have an easier time teaching a cat to talk than she would getting Widowmaker to stop ignoring her. "Listen to old music and drink wine alone?"

She grows bold, bends down and raises the needle off the vinyl. _Swan Lake_ stops, abruptly, and the empty echoing silence is all that greets them now. That makes it worse, somehow. Like the weight of all the years of neglect and abandonment bear down upon them.

"Are you bent on annoying me?" A bit of an edge colours her otherwise monotone voice.

"Only until you give me answers." Sombra shoots back, all affable geniality. Widowmaker takes a long drag off her cigarette. In the lamp light, smoke rises to the ceiling. Sombra's almost in front of her now, as she takes in the corner Widowmaker has taken to squatting in. Of all the places in the château, she chooses this: a basement that looks and feels more like a dungeon. Not the sunlit courtyard, or even the library that--for reasons unknown--remains largely untouched, but the squalid basement.

Widowmaker was always a puzzle Sombra couldn't figure out. There was never enough pieces. Even now, it's impossible to know just what she's thinking, if anything. The subtle crease between Widowmaker's brow does little to help; it could be a trick of the light for all Sombra knows.

"You could rebuild this place." Why Sombra continues to bother is beyond her. It's easy enough to just let Widowmaker sulk in the dark. Widowmaker stubs her cigarette out on the ground--it's old cobblestone. "Make it grand again."

"I could," she agrees. At last, she moves, robe close to revealing a lavender breast. "but why bother."

Sombra's eyes flick from the breast, and upward. Widowmaker notices, says nothing, does nothing, only rises in a fluid motion that speaks to her years as a dancer, an assassin.

"Would be much better than sitting in the dark and dirt." Suddenly Sombra is reminded of how much taller Widowmaker is. She takes an involuntary step back, hating how she's closed herself off from the stair case as the woman in front stares at her. The yellow eyes are enough to make her shudder, almost, as cold and dead as they are.

"Let the dead lie." Widowmaker turns and makes for the stairs, leaving Sombra in the basement. She has only the lantern for company.


End file.
